


Superheroes don't come without trauma

by ernyx, tincanicarus



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Natasha Needs a Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tony Stark Has A Heart, everyone has a tragic past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-12 01:28:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7078858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ernyx/pseuds/ernyx, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tincanicarus/pseuds/tincanicarus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha is having a bad day. That's okay, it happens, she'll manage, she always does.</p><p>She didn't count on Tony deciding to try and do something about it. And maybe his usual, rambly, roundabout way to go about trying to be comforting might even help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Superheroes don't come without trauma

_“Show me a hero, and I'll write you a tragedy.”_

_― F. Scott Fitzgerald_

* * *

 

     “I tried to make tea and I probably did it wrong and it’s terrible but it’s the thought that counts so you can’t say no to this peace offering.” Rambles it off, then pushes the cup into Natasha’s hands, tilting his head for maximum look-at-my-big-sad-eyes effect. “Sooo. Wanna paint my nails?” This is Tony’s attempt at being comforting. He’s doing good, he thinks.

     Natasha stares at him for a moment. He’s out of his mind– well, that’s not new– but this is… bizarre at best. She takes the tea, bemused, and puts it on the counter, unsure what _terrible_  means in Tony’s vocabulary when she’s seen him down coffee that’s been over-roasted enough to taste like charcoal while he works.

     Her eyebrows knit as she looks at his nails, and then at hers (unpainted, but cut neatly as always), and then back at his face, clearly unable to process this strange situation.

     “I… what?”

     “Well, I don’t have Thor’s flowing luxury locks, so you obviously can’t braid my hair, that would look ridiculous anyways, he can pull it off, me though, I don’t think so, but I’m clearly overdue for a manicure.”

     Tony smiles a bit, tilting his head the other way - then straightens his posture, frowning slightly. “Or, I mean, if you want to, we can just sit and, ah, awkwardly talk about feelings. I mean. Some people are into that.”

     And he taps his fingers quickly against his thigh, a nervous gesture accompanied by a deep breath through the nose. “You make me hot chocolate when we meet up in the kitchen at 3 am and I’m starting to go cross-eyed, so. Admittedly, this doesn’t measure up even a little to your hot chocolate. Want hot chocolate?”

     Natasha gives him the most confused smile possible, but shakes her head. “I… I’ll take the hot chocolate. Feelings are gross.”

     She pokes his nose good-naturedly, and adds. “Besides, if you’re up at 3 am and I’m making you hot cocoa, it also means that I’m up at 3 am, so don’t take it personally.”

     Lies, but whatever.

     "Nu-uh, I’m taking it personally and you can’t stop me, I like having special hot chocolate at crazy hours privileges.” Tony’s smile widens, and he takes advantage of her poking his nose to grab her wrist, gently tugging her forward and putting his other arm around her shoulders. Natasha is not used to physical comforts and casual touches, not even after all these years, so she has to fight back her initial response to pull away. It’s not something against Tony, though.

     “Isn’t it interesting how we’re a team of random people and each and every one of us except the alien is absolutely emotionally constipated? We’re so bad at adulting. Come on then, hot stuff.”

     Natasha snorts, which Tony counts as a win in his book, half-pulling half-walking Natasha towards the kitchen.

     “Except maybe Thor, right?” she comments as she’s dragged along– not that she’s particularly resisting.

      “Exactly,” Tony agrees easily, nodding along. “Thor is the guy who would make L’Oréal very happy if he ever needed the money enough to go into advertising. Great hair, Space-alien-prince, probably a couple thousands years old– honestly he’s not really a fair basis of comparison for any of us. And yet here we are, and have to deal with him making us all look a little bad. My bed-hair look doesn’t even look charming next to him, and it always managed before.”

     Natasha carefully doesn’t mention that she’s about a hundred years old herself… though granted, that’s not quite a couple thousand. Still, Asgardians must mature far slower than humans given their lifespans, right? She can’t help but agree that he’s got great hair though. Tony’s constant conversation distracts her a little, and while his rambling can sometimes be annoying, right now it’s a slight respite from the **noise** in her head.

     She can’t help but wonder what happens if he ends up with that sort of thing going in his own mind. Is there someone who could yap on and on to distract him? She’d certainly be bad at it. She’s not used to providing proper care for people, even if she does want to– she never learned, she doesn’t know how. She can wrap them up in a blanket and take them to some of her favorite hidey-holes, but sometimes that’s not _enough_ – just like hot cocoa doesn’t solve problems either.

     Natasha shakes her head. “Anyway, I have no idea what concoction you’ve created here, so how about I make hot chocolate for the both of us… the toasted marshmallow kind?” She’s better at doing things for other people than herself. It seems to help, somehow, to make her feel useful, to make her feel like maybe she can do something right.

     The engineer gives Natasha a very critical version of the side-eye, then the corners of his lips tilt up. “Yeah no we’re not gonna drink my tea stuff, I mean, that was the plan. If I tried making chocolate now, we’d end up with more chocolate-milky stuff burned into the stove top than in our cups. That is, if I didn’t manage to somehow set it on fire in the pan before. No, no, you make the chocolate, you’re good at that, and hell yeah I want some marshmallows.”

     “Yeah, alright, I’ll make cocoa... with extra marshmallows for you, as usual.” Nat reaches for the cabinet where the chocolate is stashed, and her hand hovers over it for a moment, and she stares at it. It’s _shaking_ , and she wants to glare at it for giving away far more than she wants. She should have more self-control than this. Slowly, she pulls the packet out and sets it on the counter, taking a deep breath before letting it out in a huff.

     Just another night to survive.  
               Ignore the demons, do something for someone other than herself.

     Tony is smiling, leaning against the fridge, watching the redhead - and he only catches the pause, the shaking, because he’s _watching_ , actually paying attention to Natasha, the smile dimming on his face, because she’ll either catch herself or–

      _Or not_.  
                              She can’t. Not today. Slowly, she slips down to the floor.

      _Weakness,_  she scolds herself. _And that too in front of someone else._  
               She’s not allowed this. She’s not… she _**can’t**_ …

     “Sorry,” she whispers, and curls into herself.

     The engineer reacts by walking over to where Natasha has decided to sit, and sits down on the cool kitchen floor next to her, letting their shoulders touch deliberately. It is hard, for him, to comfort - people are just so complicated, how is he supposed to know what they need? And Natasha, Natasha is always so  **strong** , for all of them, damnit, how’s he supposed to react to this?

     The casual touch is… Natasha doesn’t know how to feel about it. It’s just more of a reminder that she’s failed to keep herself contained in front of others. Even in the privacy of her rooms or the secluded spaces she frequents, she doesn’t like breaking down, but in front of Tony?

               It’s unthinkable, really.

     “So, this is not the most comfortable place to sit around here, but I can’t really judge, I’ve fallen asleep on the kitchen counter before. I’m not even kidding. Hill found me, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she had some sneaky pictures she’s holding onto just so she can occasionally look at them when I’m annoying her and regret she didn’t kick me off.”

     He continues rambling a little bit, which is a little comfort, almost as if he hasn’t even acknowledged the lack of self-control, the fact that she’s practically shivering with an overburden of emotion… and then he breaks it.

     Tony pauses, taking a deep breath. “Don’t apologize, Tasha. Not for this.”

     She inhales sharply- and then it's back to the pseudo-normalcy again, Tony twisting around, procuring a little bag out of seemingly nowhere - yes, he squirrels his foodstuff away everywhere - sitting up straight again, opening the bag and holding it out to her. “Blueberries?”

     Nat waves it away, of course, managing a small smile in his direction while she responds nonverbally, but it falls away again when she stares ahead. The lump in her throat is suffocating her, and she’s struggling to blink the tears away before they fall. All that resonates through her head is one word.  ** _Monster, monster, monster._**

     She slowly allows herself to lean on Tony’s shoulder, closing her eyes.

     “Sorry,” she chokes out. “You might have to make the hot chocolate by yourself after all.”

     “Well, now that I’m thinking about it, I think Bruce was talking the other day about how sugar is really bad for us, so it’s probably better for my health if I don’t have hot chocolate right now anyways.”

     Tony pops some blueberries in his mouth, munching thoughtfully. Natasha is leaning on his shoulder now, so he’s probably doing something right? Maybe? Who the hell knows, honestly.

     Natasha wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but when her memories surface like this, it’s like being thrown back into the past– PTSD, of course. She’s trained herself to control it, or at least work around it, when she’s fully conscious and in work mode, but that doesn’t help with the nightmares.

     It doesn’t help with the half sluggish, half jittery mess that Nat is at the moment. And while Tony’s rambling _had_  been helping, suddenly it seems very far away. She’s in the training grounds, being called up to spar with… what was her name? Kaarina. She was one of the gentler ones, the ones that wouldn’t survive.

     She had her arm around her throat, choking her, waiting for the signal that she was allowed to let go, but it didn’t come.

            She went limp in Natasha’s arms, pulse stuttering to a stop.

     Of course Tony can’t know what place Natasha is seeing pictures of - but he can empathize with the _feeling_ , space surrounding him, his team, fallen, hands pressing his head down into the water again when he’s had not enough time to _breathe_ \- yeah, well, they’re superheroes.

     These don’t come without trauma.

     Natasha gasps, trying to drag herself out of it, Tony's voice closer again. 

      “Is– I mean, is there something I can do for you instead? We can of course just continue this bonding moment on the kitchen floor. I’m totally fine with bonding moments on the kitchen floor.”

     “Just,” she tries to swallow around the lump in her throat, “keep talking. About your robots, about blueberries, whatever. Anything.” _Please._

     “Of course, sweetcheeks,” Tony murmurs, aiming to make his tone  _soothing_. “I’m right here, we’re sitting in the communal kitchen, when you get up, don’t do it too fast, or you’re gonna hit your head on the counter and if somebody walks in with you unconscious on the floor it’ll make me look _really_  bad. Would you like to hear a lullaby? There’s that one I know in Italian, which Maria sang– when I was very young, because she, well, there was the alcohol, but I’ve got one lullaby. It’s about pots and kettles, terribly adorable.”

     Tony’s voice acts like a ground to the short-circuiting mess in Nat’s brain, her slow breaths barely audible as she focuses on listening to him. She’s never had this before, had someone talk her through these. Most of the time, she’s cooped up in her room, pressing sharp edges of things into her palms so that the physical pain overwhelms the mental pain, she pulls up one of her albums, the very few personal pictures she keeps of her teammates, of Ivan, of the people she’s cared about in life and the ones who have cared about her.

     Often times, it’s not quite enough, and Natasha goes for a run. Maybe she climbs, there are rocky outcrops designed for picks and ropes but Nat’s just strong enough to make it up without them so that she can watch the sun and the earth around her.

     Tony reaches out, putting one hand easily across Natasha’s shoulders, and starts singing. “ _Bolli bolli pentolino, fa la pappa al mio bambino; la rimescola la mammamentre il bimbo fa la nanna; fa la nanna gioia miao la pappa scappa via…_ ”

     Natasha is somehow in the present, listening to Tony's singing voice, slowly letting the tension drain. The memories are still vivid, but she can control herself for the most part, and she gives him a small, if shaky, smile as he finishes.

     “You never told me you could sing. That was pretty.”

     “Well, yeah, I don’t do it often,” Tony admits, lips quirking up slightly, “don’t want to depress people with my long list of talents  _too_  much. They already struggle as it is, I mean I’m really pretty  _and_  hella smart, it’s a little unfair.”

     Aside from the inescapable amusement of having just heard Tony Stark use the word ‘ _hella_ ’, there’s some comfort in him joking about his ego like he does. She knows better than to believe half of it, of course, but it’s familiar. And recent. That’s what she needs.

     He tilts his head to look at Natasha, and she seems _better_. These things, they don’t just go away, so _better_  will do. “But thanks, I guess. Hey, do you know any Russian lullabies? Because I bet these are ridiculously pretty.”

     Tony gives her a smile, his arm still around her shoulder. “If you want, you could teach me one.”

     “Russian lullabies?” Just like that, she’s in the past again, but before the Red Room. Ivan holds her in his arms and dances around the room, humming. She giggles and tugs at his beard, and he lifts her high into the air. Her face softens. She misses Ivan so much. “Well, since it’s almost Christmas, there’s a lullaby for that time of the year…”

                And so she [begins](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2F4C1ptNpBFi4%3Flist%3DPLBKYv4ZQiO0wN-EZF2Z6BkVr2euO7vZ9U&t=MzMwYjZiN2ZjMzMyYWYxZGQzZGM5YzQ1YzNmYjJkMTc2Yzk1OTg4Ziw3UmM1YWxuVg%3D%3D).

     Tony is smiling, squeezing her shoulder slightly when she’s finished. “What did I say? Totally called it. Ridiculously pretty. Cheers.”

     The engineer doesn’t look at her now, absurdly suddenly feeling like an intruder in whatever place Natasha just pulled that little song from - and, recognizing it is absurd, he pushes the thought away (or makes a valiant effort to, at least), chuckling softly.

     “You know what’s funny? We actually _could_  start a super secret boy band. _Tasha and her Boys_ , or something, need to work on the name, the both of us could do vocals, Steve could pick up guitar-playing, Clint on the bass, Bruce on the drums– we’d be so good, I’d pay to see us.”

     Natasha snorts lightly, somewhat amused. “Wouldn’t really be a boy band with me in it, would it?” She tilts her head, letting it rest on Tony’s shoulder. “I’d put Clint on drums and Bruce on piano, I think. Banner does enough smashing without doing it in human form.”

     Besides, Clint has an excellent sense of beat, possibly from pacing himself in archery. He drums on things with his hands all the time.

     “Well, it could be _your_  super secret boy band,” Tony points out, lips quirked into a grin, “I’m very fond of _super secret boy band_. Nice ring to it, don’t you think? In that case Steve will have to do both guitar and bass– don’t underestimate the importance of the bass. Somebody has to play it.”

     Super secret boy band– wasn’t that what he’d called the Avengers when Fury first proposed that he join? Figures.

     “And we’d make a weird band singing lullabies. Not sure I’d buy tickets to that.” She blinks slowly. “I wonder if Clint could handle a violin, having a bow and strings on it. Not that they’re at the same type.” A scrunch of her brow. “Do you play an instrument?”

     Tony rolls his eyes at her, lips quirking up. “Lullabies– putting bad guys to sleep? No, no I don’t think that would work out for us. We’d need a way more energetic soundtrack. And I learned to play the piano, naturally - rich kids, y’know.”

     The engineer shrugs, breathing out in a low sigh. “Right after ballroom dance lessons.”

     “It could be my super secret boy band for Avengers battles, I suppose.” She doesn’t like the loss that comes with the fighting, but she’d be lying id she said she didn’t crave the adrenaline rush. If only she could have that and still manage to save people… “Something Nobuo Uematsu-ish. We could record it and– have it be the background music of an Avengers video game? No, I don’t _really_  like the idea of people having my face plastered anywhere so maybe not.”

     She pokes the side of his head and leans against him almost wearily. She knows all too well about being forced to learn things at a young age, although for different reasons, and for a strange moment, she wonders how it would have been if they’d known each other as children. “You’ll have to play for me sometime,” she murmurs, “and I’ll return the favor. Fair?”

     “You know me, I can’t really say no if you ask me nicely for anything,” Tony quips, pressing his lips against her hair in silent comfort. “So, sure. I’ll just have to buy a new piano– I flattened the last one– I think one’s in the mansion, but I’d need to get that tuned– anyways, how’s Chopin sound? One of my favorites to play.”

     She frowns. “You _flattened_ one? That should be a crime. No musical instrument should ever be damaged.” But she nods. “Chopin sounds good. I’ve got some Rimsky-Korsakov if you like that. Typical– Russian and Russian, I know.”

     “Don’t blame you, honestly, Russians know a thing or two about music– though I would’ve pegged you for a Tchaikovsky kinda gal.”

     “Nah,” she says. “Tchaikovsky is what I was trained to do– the ballet, you know. It’s pretty but not my favorite.”

     Tony nods. “Yeah. I get that, I think. And the story with the piano- looking back at it, it's kinda impressive, the piano as well as my really cute shelby cobra, [flattened by myself](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DVdaCyjMgVx0&t=YmJjMmQxNDNmY2Y5NWVkM2IwMjhjNWEwMTJkNDM4NzE0MjZjZTI0YSw3UmM1YWxuVg%3D%3D), complete and utter destruction, a steamroller couldn’t have done it better– you know, it’s not like I did it on _purpose_. But I regret telling Carol about it, it gave her really bad ideas about using me as a blunt instrument to fling at bad guys.”

     She doesn’t care as much about the car as the piano, but she huffs, and the idea of Carol physically throwing Tony around is amusing. It reminds her of Logan and the affectionately named ‘fastball special’ where someone would grab him and just toss him at the enemy.

     She hasn’t seen Logan in ages.

     Tony smiles at nothing in particular, squeezing her shoulders, and then groaning. “Okay, this drawer has been digging into my back for too long now, can we cuddle on the couch instead?”

      Natasha effortlessly gets to her feet and holds out a hand, pulling Tony to his feet as well. “Couch sounds good. Will you let me sleep in your lap?” It’s meant as a joke, but she really wouldn’t object at this point. Tony makes her feel really comfortable, as much as Clint does and is less awkward about it. “You’re comfy.”

     Tony stretches his back as he straightens, letting his lips quirk at the question, giving Natasha a cheeky smile. “My lap is at your service.”

     They head over to the couch and, as she had said, Natasha curls up with her head on his lap. There are sudden tears pricking at her eyes at the idea of this comfort, of being _held_  when things get bad. It’s something she’s never really had. She and Clint would curl up together after bad nightmares sometimes, of course, usually just leaning against each other with the blanket pulled up around them. It was quiet and stabilizing but…

    She closes her eyes. 

     It’s a little surreal, really, when Tony considers that he has a murderous top-spy lying with their head on his lap– but somewhere down the line, ‘deadly assassin no 1′ has become ‘Tasha’, and he puts one hand on her head without thinking about it now, gently petting through her hair.

     “You letting your hair grow out? You should let me try braid it sometime. I’m promising no results, though. Admittedly I don’t have a lot of braiding experience points.”

     The contact is calming, lulling. Her hair is soft and doesn’t tangle, thanks to a number of hair products that probably rivals Tony’s regimen, but she needs it to be if it’s going to be able to move while she fights. She used to tie it back, but ponytail grabs are much harder to get out of than letting a few strands rip off here and there.

     “You gonna offer to do my nails too? Gimme a massage?” She snorts into Tony’s stomach. “Sure, go for it. You might need to spray it to hold though.”

     “Nails, yeah, sure, massage– at your own risk and peril.”

     Tony pauses, tilting his head back to rest on the couch, his hand still petting through Natasha’s hair. “Talking about classical music has put me in the mood, how about it, you up for an appetizer of my personal classics playlist?”

     She vaguely waves a hand. “Yeah, music is good, do the thing.”

     “Jay? Start off with good old _Amadé_. The classics. You know the deal.”

     The AI doesn’t respond vocally, the sounds of piano filling the room instead.

     It’s good. They're good.


End file.
